


Turning Like the Sky

by April_Valentine



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Relationship Problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:22:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Valentine/pseuds/April_Valentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Reese finds there are costs to be paid for the bad acts a person commits, costs he never thought about or expected. </p><p>Chapter 1: Reese and Zoe go up to the penthouse in Finch's hotel. Things don't go as planned</p><p>Chapters 2 and 3: a new number comes in and John starts investigating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this idea for some time now, but got a bit stuck. I think I've got most of it worked out now so I've decided to post it in sections as the next few parts of my Ten in Ten Challenge. 
> 
> Thanks to Esteefee for the beta on this section.

John held the door to the penthouse suite for Zoe, smiling slightly as he inhaled her subtle perfume. She smelled good. He had surprised himself when he’d invited her to his room; it had been a long time since he’d done anything like that. He might flirt a bit, but he hadn’t followed through with any woman in… it was years now, he realized. Yeah, he guessed it was time. And why not? Zoe had made it clear she was available and willing. And he was feeling good. He and Finch had helped another number, Harold had bought the hotel and was having fun overseeing it, though how he would really have time to be very hands on, John didn’t know. But it was good to see Finch happy and able to help their number achieve success after they’d helped save her life. So, with Finch occupied, John figured, why not, when Zoe had conveniently shown up.

She wandered around the large room, glancing out at the view of the city afforded by the floor to ceiling windows and then, noticing the bar, asked John if he wanted a drink. He watched her handle the cut crystal decanter, wondering how her fingers would feel lightly trailing down his chest. But he declined the drink.

“No, I’m good.” 

“You sure?” Zoe tossed over her shoulder as she poured one for herself. John flashed on Kara telling him he needed to start drinking on the job the first night he met her. He shook his head, annoyed at the image of his late partner rearing its head at this moment. The conflicting feelings he’d always had for Kara had been bad enough; now that she was dead – again – the circumstances of their reunion and her death had kept him awake too many nights recently. 

Banishing the image of Kara, he strode over to where Zoe was adding ice to her glass. “Maybe I will have one,” he smiled, meeting her eyes. He liked her, liked how straightforward she was, how she had seen so much and expected nothing from people. Where Kara had been completely amoral and made worse by training and experience, Zoe had her own moral code and, even if some of the people she helped in her work might not necessarily deserve to get out of the jams in which they found themselves, she didn’t kill people. John found that refreshing in a woman and smiled at the ridiculousness of that conclusion.

“What?” Zoe asked, noticing his grin. She handed him a glass.

“Nothing,” he replied, making his voice silky and teasing. As he took the glass from her, he let his fingers caress hers for just a second. 

She looked up at him from under her eyelashes and he took the opportunity to lean in for a kiss.

An hour later they lay under the covers in the king size bed. Zoe was curled close to him, resting her head on his shoulder. Despite the soft smile on Zoe’s lips, John was staring at the ceiling, feeling stressed. Things hadn’t worked out the way he’d hoped.

“It’s all right, John,” Zoe whispered, a finger trailing over his chest. “You made me feel wonderful.”

John was nothing if not a gentleman. He grimaced but didn’t reply. 

Zoe pushed the sheet down to his waist. “I heard you had a bit of a rough time the last couple of weeks,” she said, still speaking softly. Her fingers gently traced one of the fading bruises over his ribs, then moved on to an abrasion that he knew had been made by the rubbing of the bomb vest he’d been forced to wear for close to twenty four hours. 

“You could say that,” was all he chose to reply. 

“So… “ Zoe went on, “that could be why.”

John didn’t really want to talk about it. He shrugged, then slipped his fingers under her chin, intending to lift her face up to kiss her. 

“How about a hand or two of poker?” Zoe said, forestalling the kiss. She smiled understandingly, then climbed from the bed and went into the bathroom to get dressed.

John ran a hand through his hair, trying to fend off the mortification. He hadn’t been with anyone in a long time, but the last thing he’d expected had been failure. He probably should have kept things strictly on a friendship basis between them. Zoe was a good sport and would never make any disparaging remarks, but this was the kind of thing a woman didn’t forget. John wasn’t particularly happy about becoming something out of a bad comedy, but as with so many other things he’d done – or not done – in the past, he would do his best to push it out of his mind.

Taking his cue from Zoe, he got out of the bed and pulled on his suit pants, then slipping back into his white shirt and buttoning it up, even up to the next to the top button, as if he needed to cover up as much as possible. He was tying his shoes when Zoe emerged. 

She gave him a look that was more appraising than fond, then smiled gently. “Maybe I should just go,” she ventured. “Rain check?”

Grateful, John nodded. He was really up to playing any more games tonight. So far she hadn’t been judgmental or, worse, pitying, but he didn’t want that moment to come. He walked her to the door and she gave his hand a squeeze as she made her exit.

He leaned his head against the closed door for a moment after she was gone, then turned to stride purposefully over to the bar. He’d just downed a stiff drink when a light knock on the door sounded.

A voice in his ear spoke almost simultaneously. “I’m not disturbing anything, am I, Mr. Reese?” 

John sighed, feeling defeated. He turned to go open the door for Finch. “No, I’m alone,” he said.

Harold ambled in, looking around a bit curiously. “Oh. I thought… “

“Yeah,” was all John said. 

Finch favored him with a strange look, then went on. “I wasn’t listening, you know.”

“I thought you listened all the time,” he all but snapped. He regretted his tone, thankful that at least Finch hadn’t heard what had – or rather, hadn’t – happened with Zoe. 

He returned to the bar and poured himself another. He knew Finch was watching him, but he gulped it down anyway, then poured again.

“Mr. Reese?” 

He decided there was no point in answering.

Finch didn’t take the hint. “You seemed to be in much better spirits when we were in the bar downstairs.”

“Very observant, Finch.” Now that he thought about it, John saw no reason to pretend he wasn’t extremely out of sorts. He gulped down the contents of his glass, then went to sink down on the white leather couch near the windows. Finch, never one to be put off by someone else’s bad mood, followed him.

“Is there… something I can help with?” 

John rolled his eyes. “I don’t think so.” He rubbed his hand across his forehead. “You know, every time you think things might be okay… “ 

When he didn’t continue, Finch asked, “What?”

“That’s when you find out they aren’t. That they probably never will be.” John said the words without inflection or expression. No use emphasizing the fundamental truth. Better to just let the words out there the way he would shoot a grenade into an oncoming car.

Finch didn’t answer. His lips pressed together in an unhappy frown. He wasn’t one to offer platitudes under most circumstances and he and John were usually honest with each other.

At last he sighed. “I know, John. We help people, but there is a cost.”

John let his head drop to rest against the back of the couch. “Nothing I didn’t already owe.”

Again, Finch let the silence linger before he spoke again. “We can’t change the past, John. We can only go on and try to do better.” 

The gentleness in his voice nearly broke John. He looked at Harold, at the man who had created the most sophisticated computer system in the world and thought despite everything, he was still so sweetly naïve. Trying to do better wasn’t enough. It never would be. 

John had been naïve himself, he realized. Only a few weeks ago, he’d been smiling, telling Harold he felt happy. Then he’d walked into a bank basement and into Rikers and from there into a bomb vest. He should have felt euphoric when Harold freed him from it, at the realization that together they’d cheated death once again. But he didn’t. 

He was even trying to hurt fewer people when he had to fight. It had crossed his mind that the operative he’d left wounded in the hotel kitchen might come back to cross his path again but he’d been in the mood not to kill that night, having set himself a goal after the rooftop where he hadn’t blown up, when Harold had saved him yet again and he’d gotten… what? His third or fourth chance? 

But tonight had proved to him that he wasn’t making up for his past sins, wasn’t changing. Good people deserved happiness, they deserved love. It was more than clear that the man who called himself John Reese didn’t.

Harold let the silence stretch out, but he shifted slightly so that he was sitting just a fraction closer to John. After what felt like an eternity in which John tried to keep his mind blank so as not to torture himself with recriminations, Harold spoke again.

“We’ve been so busy,” he began, “that we haven’t had time to… deal with some of the events of the past few weeks.”

“You’re trying to get me to talk?” John asked, unable to keep his eyes from rolling. 

“I thought of suggesting we go for a beer,” Harold answered, “but considering you seem to have… started without me, I felt a more direct approach would be more appropriate.”

John just closed his eyes and shook his head.

“You were incarcerated, John. Interrogated.”

“Old news, Finch. Been there, done that, many times before.”

“But not since starting our work. And then your old partner, someone you thought dead and buried appeared out of nowhere, put a bomb vest on you and forced you to follow her orders which ended up doing something which may compromise our entire operation. And you could have been blown up, I might add.”

“I told you on that roof, Finch. My past was bound to catch up with me.” John sat up and glared at him. “Nobody gets an unlimited number of second chances.”

“John.” Finch’s voice dropped to the softest, kindest timbre John had ever heard from him. “My Machine assures second chances. For everyone. Especially for you.”

Abruptly, John realized he was being ungrateful. He of all people knew you couldn’t have everything you wanted in life. Harold had given him so much. 

“I’m sorry,” he grated out. “I don’t mean to be unappreciative.” He couldn’t have sounded more sincere if he’d opened a vein. And he still felt like he was bleeding inside. “I wouldn’t even be alive if it weren’t for you.” He gasped, started again, “I… “

Finch held up a hand. “I understand, John. And I didn’t think you were being ungracious. I just don’t care to hear you berate yourself.”

Unable to take the kindness in those insightful blue eyes, John turned away. He swallowed hard. “I’ll try not to.” He knew he was drunk if he’d allowed Finch to see that much of his personal pain in the first place.

“But if you do want to talk,” Finch responded softly, “I’m here. Always.” His hand slid close to John’s where it rested on the couch.

The wound in John’s soul stopped bleeding, just for a moment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reese and Finch begin working on a new number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, this chapter is turning into a case fic, so this is part one of the chapter I had expected to easily complete today. I'll have to take some more time with it though.

Things got busy again for them and that was good because John didn't like dwelling on his personal problems. He liked working. He liked thinking about the numbers, doing surveillance and fighting and knee capping and walking away alive and seeing the numbers who were in danger walk away alive too. It was so much easier to help others than to think about himself. 

Almost always, when he had to make contact with a number to help them, they would ask the same question: “who are you?” 

John didn't like being asked that. He almost always demurred to answer. He usually gave some kind of line to them, like “a friend” or “I'm not really sure myself.” It was of course more than just not being able to give them a name so they could friend him on Facebook. He really didn't know who he was and he didn't like the prospect of trying to figure it out. He knew it meant that he was hiding things even from himself, that though he didn't fear bullets or knives or bombs, he did fear looking into a mirror. If he didn't say who he was, then the man who walked in the dark wasn't the man who was helping the number that day. If he didn't give more than the name John, then the man who had so many last names didn't have to face the times he'd failed a number, or think about the woman he'd loved dying because he'd been in China or the dead bodies he'd left littering the world. 

They worked a few numbers and neither he nor Finch talked about the incidents that had nearly shattered their world. Rikers retreated into the past. Bomb vests were forgotten. Or so the both of them pretended. He tried not to show how those events had messed with his mind and was grateful when Finch, after that one time in the hotel suite, didn't try to draw him out. There were just some things you didn't talk about. He'd been trained not to dwell and he figured there wasn't much reason to change now. 

And he didn't call Carter for many weeks. Or Zoe either. He really didn't want to call Zoe and was grateful that they didn't find a need for her in their cases. 

Mornings, he tried to get up early and work out, needing to try to stay flexible and strong, to still be able to shoot straight and punch hard and run fast. It was getting a bit more difficult but a man who wasn't really able to tell other people who he was didn't think about age much either. And if he didn't wake up hard like he did in his twenties, that wasn't something he spent a lot of time thinking about either. 

Every so often, he did think about it. Once every week or so, he'd try in the shower, and he'd get partly erect. He would stroke himself, slow and tight, or fast and slippery… and when not much happened, he'd rinse off and get himself dressed and go pick up his coffee and Finch's tea and their donuts and get on with work. 

They met a woman named Shaw who turned out to be working for the relevant side of things. She tried to kill him a couple of times and they tried to help her. She didn't want to, but she stopped shooting at least. It bothered John some that she seemed to be pretty good at getting the drop on him. Maybe it was because she'd been trained by the same kind of people who'd trained him. Maybe it was because he was usually preoccupied with other things when she snuck up on him. 

Things were going a little wonky with the Machine. He and Finch didn't talk about that much either, but every so often the glitches were more obvious. Finch spent a lot of time writing code and trying to figure out what the virus on the hard drive meant. Reese did his best to work the numbers efficiently so that Harold would have time to make sure that when the time ran out, there would still be a mission for them to do. 

“We have a new number,” Finch said without looking up from his computer when John walked in a few days after they'd said good-bye to Sam Shaw. 

“Good,” John said without thinking. Finch paused with his fingers above his keyboard. 

“Good?”

John tilted his head, realizing that it wasn't necessarily good for someone to be about to be murdered or kidnapped. “I mean it's good the Machine is working,” he answered, with just a little sarcasm in his tone. 

Finch didn't bother responding. John smirked anyway. “The number is a Miss Angela Powell,” he said, getting up from his seat to walk over to their board. He pointed out the photo already taped up. “She works for a company called Hudson CryoBank.” Finch's voice slowed down the way it did when he was expecting John to begin to think about how they should proceed. 

“Frozen assets?” John asked.

“So to speak. Though I am uncertain as to who would have any reason to try to harm her. My preliminary investigation doesn't show anything out of order in the company's financials.”

John took in the picture. She was a very attractive blonde, in her early thirties he supposed. She looked like someone who might be in the movies, with an engaging smile and long, loose hair that fell over shoulders in waves.

“Scorned lover?” he asked. “Any broken relationships?”

“No. Ms. Powell is single, never engaged, no current boyfriend as far as I've been able to determine thus far.” 

“Money trouble?”

“She purchased her apartment in Manhattan last year, and although her salary from the Cryobank is close to meeting her mortgage demands, it's a bit tight. She could be making extra cash under the table…” his voice trailed off.

“What's this… Cryobank place do?” 

Finch focused on him. “Really, Mr. Reese?” He seemed surprised by the question. “It's a sperm bank.”

“That's what they call them these days?” He didn't really expect an answer. He remembered a couple of guys in college who'd talked about making some money by donating their sperm but he hadn't paid much attention. It wasn't something that he'd ever wanted to do, even when he'd been broke, having the foresight to realize that might mean that someday, somewhere there could be a kid who was his, in DNA only. “Is there any way someone could… blackmail someone who works for a sperm bank?” he asked.

“Isn't the question really why someone would want to?” Finch answered.

John turned the subject over in his mind, trying to come up with reasons. “Someone might want to find out who donated. Someone might want a certain donor's sperm or prevent someone from using a certain sample…” 

“Subjects are paid based on whether their donation is open or closed,” Finch informed him. “A man who is willing to let the couple who uses his sperm know who he is would obtain greater remuneration.” 

“So if you're anonymous, you get paid less?”

“That appears to be the case, yes.”

“I don't see why someone would want to manipulate something like this,” Reese mused. “Do certain types of donors cost more or something?”

“You mean, would a more attractive or more intelligent donor cost the recipients more?” Finch turned to head back to his computer. “Certain banks are set up and advertise that they have sperm from Nobel Prize winners, which might cost prospective parents more, but there could be lawsuits from parents whose babies aren't healthy.” He brought up a news article from Utah. “This says that a mother sued because her baby had Asperger's and a heart defect, both of which she claims were inherited from the biological father.” He read from the article, “ _When she searched out the sperm donor, she found that at least 36 children were conceived from his donations before he learned of his conditions, and that many had similar health problems. Even after becoming aware of his flawed genetic material, he neglected to inform any of the banks selling his sperm, which could have informed prospective mothers of the risk._ ”

“I thought they screened people before they donated.”

“They do,” Finch nodded. “But as we've seen, any system can be corrupted.”

“So,” Reese concluded, “if you knew you had something wrong with you, you might try to pay the sperm bank off to keep it quiet. Or, I guess you might pay off the person at the bank that you'd dealt with, like Angela here.”

“The selection process for prospective donors is supposedly quite rigid,” Finch said. “I imagine someone might want to pay off an employee to assure he would be accepted… but why? Usually, those who donate do it because they need money.”

“Paying to be able to donate your sperm so that someone specific might conceive your child…” Reese shook his head. “That seems pretty far-fetched.”

“It appears we will need to do some in depth investigation,” Finch nodded. 

“I'll get eyes on Angela,” Reese nodded, going to the cabinet to retrieve his camera.

 

Observing their number at work proved more difficult than usual. It seemed that the Hudson Cryobank wasn't all that easy to locate. It would have been simple if the address were given on the company's website, but it wasn't. Reese figured that type of place wouldn't be all that likely to hang out a big flashing neon sign: “Money for Sperm” the way places that paid you for your unwanted gold jewelry did. He ended up heading to Angela's home address after working hours instead. The next morning, it was easy to tail her to the company's main office where she worked.

_to be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

Reese followed Angela Powell to a non-descript building in an out of the way business park in the Hudson neighborhood of Manhattan. She parked her car and walked quite a distance before entering a building with just a number above the door. John tried to pair her phone but she appeared to have it turned off. When he attempted to get inside the building, he found the door was locked and that you’d need a key code to get inside or be buzzed in. When he pressed the bell, they didn’t like what he said when he tried to talk his way in.

At some point, he knew he could manage to break in, but that wasn’t what he wanted to do unless he had to. So he resorted to climbing to the roof of a building across the street, hunting until he found a decent vantage point where he could at least look through the windows and take a few pictures. He found Angela’s office in a corner of the fourth floor and spent a few hours watching as she went about her day. 

She spoke with various employees of the company and John couldn’t help noticing that they were all women. The only men she talked with were apparently customers… or he supposed they were more likely to be called donors. Once an hour or so, a man would be ushered into Angela’s office where she would proceed to speak with him for nearly an hour, referring to her computer screen frequently. After some time, they would both rise from their chairs and she would take him down the hall to where there were four blue doors. The young men would go inside for a little while and eventually emerge with a brown paper bag in hand. John figured out what was most likely happening beyond the blue doors. The prospective donors would then leave their bag on a counter and leave the building. 

He caught up with one young man down on the street. “Hey, how you doin’?” he asked the guy casually. 

The dark haired man looked up, smiling. He couldn’t be more than twenty or twenty-two, dressed in jeans and a Perdue sweat shirt. His face was a bit flushed and his eyes were bright. “Good,” he answered, looking John over. “Something I can help you with?”

“Just wondering what that building was,” John responded easily. “I work across the street… and heard a few things…”

The guy chuckled. “Oh, yeah. It’s the sperm bank, if that’s what you’ve heard.” 

“You’re doing that?” John tried to act as if he thought it sounded like fun.

“Well, trying to,” the young guy admitted. “I could really use the dough, but they sure make you jump through hoops to get in.”

“Hmmm,” John replied, non-commital.

“First, you apply online. Then, they _might_ call you for an interview. That’s what I had today.”

“Just an interview?” John asked, though he suspected the answer already.

“Well…” Grinning, the guy trailed off. “You have to leave a deposit too. For them to check out.”

“I see.”

“But I know my baby gravy will pass all their tests!” he declared. “I’ll be bringing down five hundred smackers a pop, twice a week!”

“Really?”

The younger man appeared confident. “That’s what they said. I’ll hear for sure next week, but then it’s all uphill from then.” He noticed a bus pulling up to a stop across the street. “Well, that’s my ride, man. Catch ya later.”

John smothered a smile, trying to remember if he’d ever been that sure of anything in life.

“Mr. Reese,” Finch said in his ear. “I think perhaps you should come back to the library at this point.”

“Be there in twenty,” he replied.

*****

“I think you’re going to have to get inside,” Finch said as soon as John walked into their workroom. He was staring at his computer screen as usual and didn’t look up but sounded as though he and John had been in the middle of a conversation. 

“That’s what I was thinking,” John agreed. “Any thoughts on how I can do that?”

“You could apply to be a donor.” 

Before Finch said it right out like that, it really hadn’t crossed John’s mind. He’d gone undercover to get in to other types of businesses before but for some reason, pretending to want to donate sperm was so implausible that it hadn’t occurred to him at all.

He glanced at Finch’s screen and noted that it contained the guidelines for prospective donors.

“I see one problem, Finch,” he said, pointing. “I’m not between the ages of eighteen and thirty-nine.”

Finch glanced up at him, and John realized he’d not counted on the way Finch had a habit of thinking of literally everything. “On your application, you are. John.”

Companies like Hudson wanted you to fill out copious amounts of paperwork before being accepted as a donor. They wanted medical information going back three generations. For someone like Harold Finch of course, who had invented a background for John Warren on the fly that had passed investigation by the FBI, coming up with three generations worth of family medical history was a piece of cake.

John spent a few minutes looking over the list of other things they would want before accepting someone as a donor. “They do blood tests,” he said skeptically. “For diseases. They take DNA. It’s not like I can fake that.” They also apparently did sperm counts and tested motility and froze donations and thawed them to see if they would be viable after being frozen. 

“I’m not asking you to be accepted,” Finch pointed out. “Just that you get in the door. I haven’t been able to find anyone who could be threatening Ms. Powell, therefore, the most likely scenario is that someone from her workplace is the threat.”

“Or she’s threatening someone there,” John nodded. He was still looking over the information on the website. “It says it can take weeks from the time you submit your application before you’re called in for an interview. If you’re called in.”

“Really, John?” Finch asked, sounding as if he hardly considered this an obstacle. This was the man who’d set up a page for John on a dating website and spent an afternoon exchanging flirtatious texts with Maxine Angelis. It would probably be nothing for him to hack into the company database and make them think they’d been considering John’s application for weeks. 

Harold gazed at him pointedly. “Your appointment is tomorrow afternoon at one.” 

“Great,” John said unenthusiastically. He’d been asked to do many things while working for the CIA, many more even stranger ones since meeting Finch, but this… he hardly knew how to categorize the idea.

“I’ve emailed you a copy of your application so you can familiarize yourself with it before the interview,” Finch went on. “Plus a copy of the information they send applicants before their appointments.” He glanced away, then back at John, his expression changing to one of concern. “I realize this is a lot to ask, that what you may be expected to do is rather personal…”

John shrugged. “I’ve been in weird spots before,” he noted. It was late and he decided he’d better head home. “Besides, this could be one of those that as soon as I meet the number, the threat will show up too and I might be able to handle it without much trouble.” He patted Bear and told Finch good-night.

On the way home, it finally started sinking in. He was going to go to a sperm bank and be interviewed to be a donor. The interview would end with his furnishing a sample for testing. A lump the size of Texas settled in John’s stomach.

*****

What he really wanted to do, he thought as he sat alone in the blue painted room that Angela had led him to, was to slink around the building and try to figure out what was happening there that could be a threat. He’d passed various rooms on his way to reception area, even seen the vault, peeking into stare at the huge silver tanks that housed millions of sperm for paying couples to buy, wondering at the computer system that organized it all and thinking about what Finch would think of whatever program they used and whether the Machine could tell if any of the future children would be under threat someday. 

He’d eventually been taken to Angela’s office where she’d smiled at him like a model and begun going over the eighteen-page application with him line by line after checking his driver’s license, or rather John Reardon’s license. It had been rather like a job interview and John had reflected that apparently that was what the men who came here were really doing, the excitement of the young man he’d spoken with yesterday notwithstanding, this was a job with responsibilities to go along with the payments. Those who thought of it as getting paid to masturbate probably soon realized that it wasn’t quite the dream job they thought it was. 

He answered Angela’s questions about his medical history, family background and college degree all the while trying to figure out who would want to mess with the system and how they could profit from that. Angela didn’t make it easy; she leaned across her desk at him, smiling and laughing at any weak joke he made, as if he were the most fascinating man she’d ever met. He suspected that was the plan. He’d seen only female workers here, all of them attractive and that was probably on purpose. 

On their way to the blue room, which John had realized was the sperm banks’ little joke title for it, they had passed a lab where four women technicians were looking into microscopes, presumably checking sperm for motility or whatever. The whole thing seemed so business-like and tedious, John wondered how any man could make a donation after all the preliminaries.

Before leaving him alone, Angela had pointed out the shelf containing porn magazines and dvds, handed him some packets of KY which she’d cautioned he not get on the ‘sample’ as she called it and told him to wash his hands and dry them thoroughly first. Then she’d left, locking the door from the outside. John didn’t think the lock would prove to be much trouble to him, but he couldn’t think of a way to slip out and wander the halls without producing what he’d been put in here to produce. Angela had given him a plastic cup, a pen to label it and he’d been instructed to put it in the incubator located on counter where the lab techs were working. 

He supposed he could just put an empty container in the incubator and then proceed to slink around the premises for awhile until he was caught and shown the way out. But if he needed a way back in, he should probably actually go through with it. 

Unkown to Finch, he had gone to a pharmacy last night and obtained some pills that he hoped would help him out. He’d swallowed one before his interview, as the directions stated they should be taken at least a half hour before a man wanted to perform, but the only thing John noticed was that he was beginning to feel a bit queasy. The possible side effects listed hadn’t really concerned him but he did wonder how the pills could aid in lovemaking if a man felt more like throwing up than having sex. 

Resolutely, John pushed that thought away and went to look through the available porn. The magazines were all dog-eared, as if many men had riffled through them to help them with going about their business here. The images were pretty ordinary, he reflected, nothing too kinky or fetishistic. He dismissed the dvds, even though Angela had switched on a fan that was emitting a low hum that apparently blocked sound, and went to sit on the couch with a magazine, feeling helpless. In the service of his country, he’d had occasion to seduce a few assets. This, however, was in no way the same thing.

If he hadn’t been able to masturbate at home or have sex with a willing partner, he wasn’t sure even with medicinal help that he would be capable. What was he going to do? Tell Angela that he hadn’t been in the mood? Tell _Finch_? Despite their conversation at the hotel after his unfortunate evening with Zoe, Finch really didn’t know what had gone wrong. 

Or did he? Though John had believed him when he said he hadn’t been listening, he had talked to John about the emotional backlash from recent events. John had been willing to believe that Finch had thought that he’d had some difference with Zoe, that the events of Rikers and Kara’s bomb vest had stressed him out, rather than realizing that Finch might just have figured out exactly what was responsible for John’s low mood after Zoe had left. But what didn’t Finch know about him? Even if he hadn’t heard anything specific, he certainly was more than capable of putting two and two together.

John sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. He’d long since stopped thinking of Finch’s near constant surveillance as anything that bothered him. He even welcomed knowing that he valued John’s welfare far more than his previous employers had and if any assistance was ever needed, he would be instantly aware of John’s status. But the realization that Finch probably knew that John hadn’t been able to have sex… 

Still, if he knew about that night with Zoe, it didn’t mean Finch had figured out that John was having a serious problem. It wasn’t something that John even had been thinking about all that much. His libido had been pretty dormant for a couple of years now, and even though he’d tried to jerk off a few mornings and hadn’t been able to finish it really wasn’t something he’d been actively worrying about. Not very much anyway. It wasn’t as though he had possible partners beating down his door every night.

It wasn’t as though he were looking for possible partners.

Yes, Zoe had made it clear that she was available and wouldn’t mind being friends with benefits. But otherwise, with the exception of Maxine Angelis who he’d only dated as part of his cover anyway, John wasn’t exactly in a position to be going out and meeting women. In their line of work, there was neither time nor opportunity. He and Finch both lived pretty much like monks. They’d had conversations about men like them not being able to have families and children; having someone in their lives to love was pretty much not in the cards either.

Aside from having to bed a few assets in the line of duty, John had always needed to care about someone before he had sex with them. He supposed he was unusual that way. Most of the men he’d known in school or the army hadn’t needed to fall deeply in love to feel like taking an attractive, or even not so attractive, woman to bed. John had always really needed an emotional connection before he could get physical with someone. 

Perhaps that had been at the root of his issue with Zoe, John thought. Though he liked her immensely and enjoyed her company, he wasn’t in love with her, any more than she was in love with him. That knowledge, combined with the after effects of his stay in Rikers and the stress of Kara putting that bomb vest on him probably did account for his trouble when he took Zoe up to the penthouse suite. 

The revelation made John feel a lot better. He just didn’t have that kind of a connection with Zoe, or with any woman. There were friends like Zoe and Carter, but his deep respect for Carter and her morals precluded him ever having romantic feelings for her. 

There was only one person in his life with whom John had a deep, emotional connection.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t considered Finch that way before this moment. He’d wondered, early on in their association, about a man of his age who apparently had never been married. Then, John had discovered Grace, and he’d revised his opinion of Harold. Given up on his half formed thoughts about the two of them. 

Yet his feelings for Harold were as strong as ever. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for the man, nothing he would sacrifice to keep him safe. He wasn’t something he categorized or put into words; John just accepted that Harold was more important to him than anyone. That if he were to try to put a label on how he felt, he knew only one word would come to mind: love.

Sighing, John closed his eyes and let images of Harold come to him. That little smirk he had when he was making some intellectual, dry joke. The tone of his voice when he asked over their link if John was all right. The way he’d felt under John’s hands when he’d checked for injuries when he’d found him in the train station. 

A flush began to spread through John, centering in his groin. Harold was so proper, so primly dressed as he sat at his computer working with the weight of the world on his shoulders. John wanted to undo all those buttons that kept Harold locked away in loneliness, open his waistcoats and shirts like a present and find out what was inside, wanted to hold him, touch him, feel the warmth of his skin, learn the taste of his mouth….

John shuddered, realizing he was getting hard. His hands went to his belt, undoing it and bringing down his zipper. He reached in and brought out his cock, already swelling with blood. He handled himself, enjoying the tingle of anticipation, spreading his legs for greater access. He began to stroke himself, slowly, releasing the feelings for Harold that he usually kept deep in his heart to fill him.

It was only the two of them against the world, working in secret to try to save lives, risky themselves on a daily basis. No one else really knew or could understand. But when he looked at Harold and Harold looked at him, they both knew. Harold had needed someone with John’s skills. John had needed a purpose. At first, helping the numbers had filled that need. But somehow, his purpose had shifted, from the numbers to Harold. He believed in his cause, in his Machine, but even knowing that Harold had expected him to keep working the numbers when Root had taken him hadn’t stopped John from needing to find and save him. He wouldn’t do it without him. The Machine knew that. 

And Harold had done everything in his power to get John back when he was in Rikers. He’d come all the way up to the roof of that building, even when John had told him to stay away, mocking John’s half hearted attempt to draw his gun on him to force him to leave him there to die. The man who’d never defused a bomb vest in his life had walked over and unbuttoned John’s shirt and risked his own life to save him.

John thought now of how gentle Harold’s fingers had been when he’d undone his buttons that night. How he wished he could feel Harold unbuttoning his shirt now, when there was no danger. When he could show the man how deeply he felt for him….

John gasped, his hips flexing. Blindly, he reached for the open specimen cup and came, spending his semen into the sterile receptacle with heated thoughts of Harold filling his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to enemyofperfect for the sperm bank suggestion on pofinterest_chat on Dreamwidth.


End file.
